


What Goes Up, Must Come Down

by wood_originals



Category: Sons of Anarchy
Genre: Aftercare, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Orgasm Denial, Recreational Drug Use, Sort Of, also sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:55:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25516117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wood_originals/pseuds/wood_originals
Summary: Tig and Juice in a weird little motel finding ways to amuse themselves.Juice does MDMA, Tig does Juice.
Relationships: Juice Ortiz/Tig Trager
Comments: 6
Kudos: 32





	What Goes Up, Must Come Down

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when you research MDMA and find out it's a vasoconstrictor and that most people with dicks cannot get hard on it... And also you're a perv. Don't do drugs folks.

The sorts of motels out in the desert are their own individual type of madness. This one was enamored with burnt orange like the cliffs of the Grand Canyon. The terracotta colour started on the walls and carried on to the low ceiling where a loping ceiling fan droned to itself in eternal circles, it covered the light switches and plugs and may have at one point claimed the carpet. The corners seemed lighter, the rest tread down into the realm of brown. When Tig turned on the ancient air conditioner it was with a dial and the air that huffed out of it smelled like the stale scent that came from the inside of basement deep freezes. The bed spreads were some sort of microfibre that was possibly trying to feel like suede for reasons beyond human comprehension.

Juice and Tig found themselves in this particular slice of strange on a return trip from Texas where they’d been dropping off Hailey, the run-away daughter of the SAMTEX President. All of nineteen years old she’d taken a shine to Juice and had refused to be returned to Texas unless he was the one to take her back. Tig had gone along for the ride and for protection and because he knew what it was like to have a wild daughter. Could a Son ever father anything less?

It was a two day ride through the desert if you didn’t mind cooking and wanted to punish your legs for any grievances they’d ever caused you in your life. They broke it up into shorter stints for the girl and then repeated the pattern coming back as an act of self preservation, so they’d seen a lot of really weird motel rooms and the kind of wallpaper that would give you nightmares.

Literally. One was themed with dolls. Tig had slept outside on a picnic table.

Compared to that place the Agent Orange room was downright homey.

“I’m gonna go see if I can scare up something to eat,” Tig told Juice, who was staring at the large painting of a desert scene which was hung in place of a television.

“What do people do for fun out here?” Juice asked like he hadn’t heard him.

“Same as anywhere,” Tig said making a crude gesture that made Juice laugh.

“We ate like an hour ago,” he pointed out.

“Who said I was talkin’ about food,” Tig returned with a smile as crude as the gesture before he pulled open the door. Hopefully by the time he got back the air in the room would feel less oven-like though the outside was not much better despite sunset being long behind them.

Usually after dark the air in the desert was breathable, it cooled down quickly from the blazing heat of the day. This night was thick with the tension of rain. Though the clouds had not quite decided to congregate into a storm, they were certainly thinking about it. They gathered and churned ominously at the edges of the wide horizon on all sides like a circle of people waiting for a fight to start. The sky directly above him was a hole into the cosmos. The stars were so bright it felt like the universe was coming down to devour him whole.  
  
The motel was part of a smear of civilization, all the components of it bled into the next. The motel was attached to the diner which was attached to the variety store which was where one paid for the gas from the self serve station next to a garage that looked like it belonged on the side of a house. It reminded him a little of a movie he’d never made it to the end of. 

Tig first went to the diner but the apologetic young lady who was stacking the chairs up on tables said the cook had just left for the night. She had a ring on her finger and she looked about as tired as a person could be.

“We open back up in the morning at seven,” she assured him.

“You’re killin’ me here sweetheart,” Tig sighed.

When she turned to look at him, probably to explain that their hours were posted and to take it up with the manager, her gaze got caught up on his cut and the sunburn over his nose.

Her name tag read Tiffany and apparently her father used to ride a motorcycle when she was a kid and she’d loved them ever since. Which, honestly, was what every biker looking to pick up a girl loved to hear. When she talked about it she didn’t seem so tired, and didn’t mind him calling her Tiff when she had never really given him her name and he hadn’t given her his.

She apologized for things she didn’t need to, her skin was soft, she was ticklish to a light touch and he had her nearly on top of the counter when a long honk came from outside. It was her husband coming to pick her up from work. 

“Sorry,” Tiffany said again though despite everything, she didn’t blush. “But you should come see me at seven.”

“You’re killin’ me here sweetheart,” he echoed but waved her off.

He went on to the variety store with the strange discomfort of a missed opportunity, the tightness in his jeans and the edge of frustration at the back of his tongue. The store felt like it could have been anywhere, the fluorescent lights and the grey speckled tile were universal, interchangeable. Maybe it would be soothing in another instance but it just felt eerie.

Tig didn’t linger, he bought himself jerky and a pack of smokes. They had those stupid artificial watermelon suckers that Juice liked so he put two of those down too. He paid and got out of there.

The time spent in even spotty air conditioning had left him unprepared for the heat of the night that waited for him. It pressed up against him and put hands beneath his clothes. It made the taste of missing out that much stronger at the back of his throat, it could choke him. Moths flocked to every light source but the moon. Tig made his way back to the room.

The air conditioner was silent and the room was warm like bath water. Juice lay in just his briefs across the one bed, his cheek to the bedspread, his hand stretched out stroking it one direction and then back again. The microfibre would darken in a streak and turn back like magic as he rubbed over it. Juice was entirely mesmerized by it.

When they’d turned over Hailey, the SAMTEX President had repaid the favour of them seeing her home safely with a hell of a party and a parting gift of colourful little pills. A baggie with enough MDMA to fuel a small rave. It didn’t take any genius detective work to sort out what Juice had gotten into.

“No, no Holy Roller,” Tig chastised crossing the room to the air conditioner, turning it back on and cranking it as high as it would go. It rattled the window frame. “AC stays on.” 

“It was fine in here without it,” Juice defended but didn’t move at all from his spot sprawled across the bed.

He made quite an image from that angle, the muscles of his shoulder working that hypnotic back and forth motion. His forearms had gotten darker in the sun and so had the little line of skin between helmet and cut at the back of his neck. They say men are all hard lines and sharp angles but the curve of Juice’s back and the rise of his ass with his hips cocked slightly was about as soft a thing as there ever was. It left Tig anything but.

“Right and that’s why you’re stripped down to your briefs,” Tig pointed out, getting closer without really thinking to.

“Nah it’s this blanket, man. Have you felt this?” he asked, his awe so genuine.

Tig chuckled, the sound probably lost over the grumbling of the air conditioner. He was so close now, he could feel the heat of Juice’s skin. He could see the divot of the scar from when he was stabbed in prison. “When I said they do the same shit for fun here as anywhere I meant jerking off not Molly.”

“I was bored,” Juice defended, nuzzling his face against the motel bedspread which was never a good idea.

“Yeah?” Tig breathed, leaning over him one hand resting on the back of his head the other dragging down his side until his thumb could find the scar. “Maybe I’ll have to amuse myself then.”

Juice writhed, his body following the touch, a soft noise pulled from him. Everything clearly felt good. The pressure and the sensations filtered through the hedonistic kaleidoscope of the drug made Juice squirm.

It wasn’t the first time something like this happened, especially in a strange little motel in the middle of nowhere where the rules didn’t apply. Where they could leave the evidence on the sheets and ride off the next morning. Tig pressed forward, his hips to Juice’s ass and the younger man groaned.

The noise was a soft complaint, a hitch of hesitation. “I can’t get hard on Molly,” he confessed to the bedspread.

“That’s alright,” Tig murmured, that soft lulling tone as his thumb pressed into the scar and his restrained cock pressed more insistently against the clothed curve of Juice’s ass. Everything was heat even though the room was steadily cooling. “I don’t need you hard.”

Juice groaned again, his fingers bunching into the blanket. He gripped it in handfuls as his body rocked back to meet Tig’s, the roll of his hips and the arch of his back encouraging the touches. Tig understood the conflict. Everything felt good but it was like running in a dream, it would get him nowhere.

But when there was nowhere to go anyways…

And it felt so good to try…

Tig rocked against him until the tension unravelled in him. The thoughtless friction in his jeans building, the diner forgotten. Juice melted against his hands and Tig knew he had him. Of course he did, he was always such a good boy.

“Nn fuck, Tig,” Juice breathed out. And it was sealed.

Tig ran his hand down over his side, fingers slipping beneath the elastic waist of Juice’s briefs, pulling them off and exposing what little of Juice’s skin was hidden from him. He let the fabric find its way to the floor, unconcerned about where it landed.

The fingers of his other hand dragged over Juice’s scalp, through the short velveteen stripe of hair he kept. Juice’s head tilted back following the sensation with a low moan, his eyelids fluttering a little. Tig smiled crookedly at the reaction but took his hands off of him anyways, eliciting another note this one more confused.

“Get yourself right on there,” Tig instructed, leaving a slap on Juice’s hip that made him jolt as a form of direction. He stepped back from him to find the lube that was ever present in his bag and strip off the clothing he was wearing.

Juice lifted himself up onto hands and knees and had managed to resist the temptation to get lost again in the experience of the soft material against bare skin until he was rotated to face the headboard. With Tig’s instruction followed through he indulged himself, still on his knees he lowered his chest down against the blanket, his hands gathering in the material. He rubbed his cheek and neck and chest to it in total ecstasy. The drug was aptly nicknamed.

Tig watched him for a moment, stroking himself in slow and absent motions. Partly because he looked good, uninhibited and on display but also because a sober Juice would have never willingly pressed himself into the ‘unwashed jizz rag’ of a Motel bedspread. The rarity of the scene left the wild sensation that anything could happen. That he could do anything to him. The night was lawless and that’s how Tig liked it.

Tig joined him on the bed, grateful that the suede-esque material didn’t slip like satin sheets.

Their skin was hot, sticking a little with the sweat of the day as Tig pressed up against him again and Juice let out another low moan. Tig didn’t bother finger warming the lube, just let the lukewarm gel dribble onto Juice’s waiting hole. He hissed softly against the cover.

“Cold,” Juice complained.

“Suck it up,” Tig replied more of a reflex than an actual barb.

He tossed the bottle aside and let his hands find a grip on Juice’s hips. Tig’s hard cock rested against the cleft of Juice’s ass, his hips rocked, smearing through the slick of lube. Tig wasn’t neat about it, it wasn’t much his style and the easy glide of skin on skin would always bring out the worst in him. Juice had gotten fixated on this new feeling, but before he could lose himself in it entirely Tig drew back. Before any noise of question or complaint could leave the younger man Tig pushed himself hilt deep inside of him with a practiced ease.

Juice breathed in air so sharp and fast it seemed as though his lungs had been stolen from him. Maybe it felt like that, the same sort of shock that comes from being dumped into an ice bath when you have a fever. He couldn’t make a noise, couldn’t adjust so quickly to being so full and all of his body was tension and heat. Tig bit his lip relishing the shock and awe of it before his hips started to move in slow smooth motions.

The whiplash of getting fucked by Tig seemed to clear slowly. Juice’s altered perception wouldn’t hold onto the bad, only turning towards the good like a flower to the sun. Juice melted all over again, came back into his body and his breaths again, giving over little mewling sounds as Tig more steadily built the pace.

“That’s it, just like that. You feel so good, baby,” Tig murmured, and all the other porn clichés while Juice only moaned for him. He spoke more in the way he leaned back into the thrusts that had become an even skin smacking beat.

Tig leaned over his back, his mouth finding spots all over his neck and shoulders to lick and bite and kiss. With his lips to his neck he could feel the vibrations of the moans he pulled from him.

Tig didn’t get too rough with him, wanting to keep them both in that good place. That sweet spot that made the room disappear and the sweat trickling down the small of his back vanish. The world pin-holed until it was just the places their skin met, only how good it felt to touch him, to fuck him.

Good things only last so long.

Juice let out a frustrated keen. His one hand had pressed between his thigh, trying to coax himself into full hardness but the chokehold the drug had on his circulation wouldn’t let him. He was wet between his thighs from precum, the pleasure of it all having him turned on in every way but an erection. Every touch a promise his body couldn’t keep.

Tig wouldn’t admit that it was that overstimulated but pent up frustration that put him over the edge – but it was. There was a certain darkness in him, in all of them really. Nice, vanilla people who got off in the missionary position with the lights turned off didn’t live this kind of life. If they did they didn’t stay nice and vanilla. Tig liked the way he sounded, trapped in his own skin, knowing that he was using him for pleasure in a way that Juice couldn’t access in that moment.

Tig leaned back and poured hot cum into his body, fucking him in shallow thrusts instead of burying himself deep for it. When Tig pulled out of Juice’s thoroughly fucked hole it was still wet from the sloppy way Tig had applied the lube. He bit into his lip and reached out, the world still only spanning as far as their skin, he gripped a handful of his ass and let his thumb pull him open just a little. Just enough to watch his cum drip out.

It was nearly enough to make him fuck him all over again.

Instead he reached out to gather him up by the throat and haul him up onto his knees. Juice’s back pressed to his chest, Tig could feel the way his breaths hitched. Up close to him again he could see that the frustration had welled tears in his eyes. His dark lashes were wet, held together with tears like dew on morning grass. Tig thought he was beautiful like that but didn’t think Juice would appreciate hearing that. Instead he showed his appreciation by licking the salt from his cheek.

“Can you feel me leaking back out of you?” he purred against his ear, lips to skin.

Juice made a soft whine and nodded.

Tig put no pressure against his throat, but he held him firm, his other hand smoothed back and forth over his side.

He held him like that until Juice’s breathing evened out. “Turn around, let me see.”

Juice obliged, in slow motions. Maybe he was trying to not make a mess of himself or the bedspread, both were a lost cause. Whatever the case may have been, he moved himself so his back was to the headboard, his knees tipped wide. The insides of his thighs were sticky with a mixture of lube and precum, the wet and obvious trail of Tig’s cum streaked the underside. Juice’s cock was still soft and useless to him at the center of it all, he wouldn’t meet his gaze for more than a second, focusing instead of the lopsided cycle of the ceiling fan. He was perfect.

Tig leaned in without pretense, his tongue hot against his skin as he followed the trails of cooled fluids.

Juice gasped in again, grabbing a handful of dark curls and probably going a shade of crimson he didn’t think possible with his skin tone. “ _Jesus Christ_.”

“He can’t help you here,” Tig quipped back with a smirk dirty enough to suit what he was doing.

Juice laughed, a breathless sound that seemed exhilarated and yet somehow worn thin. “You’re fucking twisted.”

“And you’re such a good boy for putting up with it,” Tig crooned with mock sweetness, his mouth sucking a rose coloured bruise on the inside of his thigh. Something to mark the occasion.

Juice tried to look annoyed but even playful praise hit him in a good way. It was obvious and endearing if not easily exploitable.

“Are you done? I want to go take a shower while I’m still riding this,” Juice asked fingers still buried in Tig’s hair, tugging restlessly.

He could have been mean and pinned him down but Juice had been good considering he was neutered from the full scope of the experience. Tig sat up, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “Don’t cook yourself like an idiot,” he warned.

“Yes, Dad,” Juice answered, getting his shaky legs under him.

“Don’t start with that shit,” Tig growled.

Juice laughed but showed him his hands in surrender. “Sorry, sorry,” he chirped, still laughing as he closed the bathroom door.

The sound of water started and didn’t stop for nearly an hour, that was typical and probably for the best. He was probably hypnotized by the sensation of it. Hopefully he kept it cool and swallowed some of it too, MDMA dried you out something awful.

At some point Tig noticed that the constant hiss of water was gone. He couldn’t be sure when it had stopped, just that it was no longer a part of the soundscape of the room along with the rumbling of the air conditioner, the rattling of its window frame and the lazy drone of the ceiling fan.

“You gonna live in there?” Tig called.

No response.

“Life alert moment? Help I’ve fallen and I can’t get up?” Tig teased the edge of concern working its way into his voice.

Tig tried the door and found it unlocked. The bathroom had not gotten the orange-memo and was instead almost entirely a toothpaste shade of blue green. The space was damp but not steamed up. It gave him hope that Juice hadn’t given himself heat stroke and passed out, cracking his head open on the way down and somehow managing to shut the water off.

The curtain on the shower was pulled over, mildewy and opaque. He reached out and yanked it back.

There was Juice, folded up by the drain, leaned against the back wall. His glazed eyes stared at the tile directly in front of him. His skin was mostly dry just from sitting in the open air.

For a horrible second Tig thought he was dead, but then he blinked. It was a great relief, Tig really hated it when the people he’d just pumped DNA evidence into decided to up and die.

“Hey,” Juice said to the wall, his voice a little distant.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Tig asked.

Juice shrugged and shook his head though his focus remained on the tile in front of him. Tig sighed and reached out for his elbow.

What goes up, must come down.

Tig coaxed him up in none too gentle touches, prodding him to stand and then guiding him out of the bathroom. He lead him to the bed that didn’t reek of sex. He gathered up the second microfibre blanket that had made such an impression on Juice and wrapped him up in it, folding him into his lap.

“What are you doing?” Juice asked, sounding baffled.

“Nothing,” Tig said as his hand spread over Juice’s head, his palm dragging slowly back and forth over Juice’s hair, his thumb brushing his temple.

This was the part that never happened, that they wouldn’t talk about. They could fuck like depraved animals, but the tenderness that strung everything together, the sinew of a bond that came from being entirely willing to kill or die for the family their cuts made them – that didn’t happen. That was a mistake, that was a blip, misremembered dreams from drinking too much or taking a blow to the head.

Men were hard lines and sharp angles, and Sons were so sharp they were blades.

Tig’s hand smoothed over Juice’s head like he’d done to the blanket when Tig had first walked back in, the motion continuous and hypnotic. Juice’s eyes stayed open for a long while, staring at the desert scene that hung where a television should be. The lights had been turned off though neither remembered doing it.

“You did good for me, so good,” Tig murmured, a quiet breath in the darkness.

Whatever tension was left in Juice’s exhausted frame released, his eyes closed.

Outside thunder rumbled and rain began to fall, it came down in such thick heavy drops Tig could hear it on the roof and the parched ground outside.

Maybe it would be dried out by sun up, or maybe they’d have to spend another night in this place.

It wouldn’t be the end of the world.


End file.
